


The Were of the Baskervilles

by okapi



Series: The Were & the Nightwalker [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Canon Divergence - The Hounds of Baskerville, M/M, Tarot, Tarot Challenge, Vampires, Werewolf Watson, Werewolves, vampire Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:41:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21740800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Sir Henry Baskerville claims his inheritance.ACD. Baskerville AU. Vampires & Werewolves.For the DW Fortune Favors Tarot Challenge. My cards: The King of Wands, Death, the 10 of swords (reversed). My spread: Situation, Challenge, Resolution.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Were & the Nightwalker [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1633969
Comments: 57
Kudos: 69
Collections: Fortune Favors: Round One— Rider-Waite-Smith, Story Works





	1. The King of Wands

**Author's Note:**

> I used the Biddytarot.com web site and _Queering the Tarot_ by Cassandra Snow as resources. All the supernatural creatures were inspired by descriptions and illustrations of _A Practical Guide to Monsters_ by Nina Hess. Also for the DW story_works 2019 Paranormal challenge.

Sir Henry Baskerville stood on deck in a great bearskin coat looking out at dark waters and looking up at dark stars and wondering just what it was that fortune favoured.

The coat was an absurd extravagance, purchased as it was on the spur of moment, the moment being the one in which he’d received news of his inheritance, but buyer’s regret had died the first night of the sea voyage. The coat allowed Henry to indulge his newly-discovered penchant for strolling aboard ship at all hours. Neither icy winds nor dropping mercury vexed him when he wore it.

The coat was no shield, however, against tempests raging within, and it was such a storm of the soul that gripped Henry as he stood, still and solemn, his hands resting on the railing, looking at dark waters, dark stars, and wondering.

“Monsieur would like three cards?”

Henry started and turned.

A figure in a mottled brown cloak sat before a table and a stool. Obsidian eyes set in a heart-shaped face met Henry’s own eyes.

Then he glanced up and down the boat.

He was alone. Even the carousers had taken their leave.

“Cards?” he asked.

“Three,” repeated the figure.

“Conjuring or divination?”

“That depends on Monsieur. Three cards for Monsieur’s journey.”

Henry neared the table; his eyes resumed their surveillance. Was it a trap? Was there a villainous compatriot in the wings waiting to spring? He paused, but when no danger manifested, he surrendered to curiosity and lowered his form, which the coat amplified considerably, onto the stool.

“Monsieur has a question?”

Monsieur had too many questions to have one.

Henry shrugged and, to his mild surprise, found his gesture was mutely accepted.

A hand was drawn across the table and, in its wake, left three cards. With another wave of the same hand, the cards were turned over. The movements bore the practiced grace of a magician or a casino attendant, but the cards were not of the commonplace gambling ilk.

“King of Wands. Death. Ten of Swords, reversed.”

* * *

“What do you make of it?” I asked, gazing into the well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot and noting behind me a walking stick seemingly floating in air before a disembodied dressing gown.

“Doctor Mortimer is a young medical man, unambitious, absent-minded, with a dog larger than a terrier but smaller than a mastiff.”

I turned and applauded.

Holmes stood and bowed. Then he passed me the stick.

“What do you make of our wand, Watson?”

“I haven’t your deductive faculties.”

“I haven’t your nose.”

I sniffed the bulbous head. “Mortimer’s _were_.”

“And?”

I sniffed the bite marks in the Malacca. “His pup’s a very good boy.” 

Holmes laughed and went to the window. “Ah, here they come, man and beast. Doctor Mortimer wishes to consult us both, I presume.”

“He probably wishes to consult you, Holmes, but fears doing so alone.”

“Very likely, but, Watson, he must be very absent-minded, indeed, to leave his stick behind and think he could consult a nightwalker at ten o’clock in the morning.”

“He’s a man of science. Maybe he thinks nightwalkers’ aversion to sunlight is myth.”

“No need to speculate further. Those are his footsteps on the stairs.” Holmes turned. “Doctor Mortimer, do come in!”

Doctor Mortimer was a tall, thin man. At once, I envisioned the figure he would cut on a full moon night: a lanky, spare creature with light brown fur; keen, grey eyes set closely together; and a long, narrow muzzle.

Holmes greeted the man while I saluted the curly-haired spaniel, which wagged its tail and darted between its master and me.

Then Holmes pointedly turned his back to us, allowing me to give Doctor Mortimer a proper greeting without embarrassment. Lupin salutations resemble those of the French but with less kissing and more sniffing.

“Now,” with the formalities observed, I gestured to a chair, “please have a seat and tell us how we can help you, apart from returning your walking stick.”

“I am so very glad,” yipped Doctor Mortimer, “to have it back.” Then his gaze flitted nervously between Holmes and me.

Holmes tried a reassuring smile.

“Please calm yourself, Doctor Mortimer. You, and your stalwart companion,” he nodded chivalrously at the spaniel which had taken its place at its master’s heel, “are in no more danger here than you were moments ago on the pavement.”

“Mister Holmes is an expert problem-solver,” I added. “And I vouch for your safety. I should not be able to share lodgings as I do,” I waved my hands, indicating the sitting room, “should he pose a threat.”

Doctor Mortimer sniffed and, perhaps recognising the verity of my statement in my unwavering scent, relaxed. Even the spaniel shuffled forward to lick my hand. In return, I gave him a hearty scratch behind the ears.

Doctor Mortimer produced a manuscript and cleared his throat, and Holmes leaned back in his chair with an air of resignation which only the timeless can affect.

“In 1742, in Dartmoor…”

* * *

When Doctor Mortimer had finished reading, much, much later, he looked from me to Holmes.

“Do you not find it interesting?”

“Yes, indeed,” replied Holmes. “With the right musical score, a proper cast, and adequate lighting, I’m certain that Watson will secure us a pair of front row tickets. He will thoroughly enjoy himself, and I will regret my inability to fall prey to sudden influenza.” 

Doctor Mortimer looked affronted.

“Have you a more recent problem?” I prompted gently.

“The death of Sir Charles Baskerville, three months ago. Here are the public facts.” Doctor Mortimer gave an excerpt of newspaper to me. I read the headline, then passed it onto Holmes.

“I was Sir Charles’ friend and medical attendant. He died on a full moon night. His body was hidden, half-buried in a copse at the end of the yew tree alley and not discovered until morning. He died of cardiac exhaustion, but his face was contorted in paroxysm of fright!”

Holmes tapped the newspaper clipping. “It says he was walking on his toes.” He huffed. “If he was as frightened as you claim, it is more likely that he was running!”

“Yes!” exclaimed Doctor Mortimer. “But from what? Prior to Sir Charles’ death, whispers had been circulating among the locals that on full moon nights the legendary Hound of the Baskervilles roamed the moor.”

It was my turn to huff. “But surely it is not a hound, but a wolf. You yourself! As tragic as the circumstances are, it would not be the first time that a human was fatally frightened by a supernatural presence.”

Doctor Mortimer shook his head. “The rumours began but a few months before Sir Charles’ death, long after my arrival in the area, and I do not know of any _were_ with red eyes and glowing fur. The size of the beast alone, if the local talk is to be believed, would disqualify me as the rumours’ source.”

I persisted in my line of questioning. “But, surely, Doctor, you have seen this creature yourself. Or is the moor so vast that you could fail to cross paths on full moon nights?”

“I am an amnemosynic.” He shot a glance at Holmes.

“Holmes is familiar with the _were_ practice of ingesting certain preparations to erase from human memory experiences as wolf,” I said evenly. “But are you the only were in that part of Dartmoor?” This seemed highly unlikely to me. The remoteness of the area would, no doubt, appeal to many _weres_ who wished to stretch their legs and howl to their hearts’ content beneath a full moon.

“Yes,” said Doctor Mortimer ruefully. “I am the only _were_ in those parts.

Holmes leaned forward. “So, Doctor, am I to understand that apart from rumour and legend you have absolutely no evidence at all of this creature’s existence?”

“I have evidence,” retorted Doctor Mortimer hotly. “Some distance from Sir Charles’ body, I observed footprints. Mister Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!”

As if on cue, the spaniel whined. A shudder passed through me, but Holmes was unaffected.

“The solution is quite simple, Doctor: quit your amnemosynic habit and observe the beast for yourself.”

“For three moons, I have tried, and for three moons, I have failed to see anything novel.”

“After the full moon, can’t you smell some trace of the creature?” I was, admittedly, a dog with a bone, but I presumed Doctor Mortimer must know more than he realised or would admit.

“I do smell something strange which I do not recognise,” he conceded, “after, after...” His voice faltered.

Holmes slapped his hands on the arms of the chair and pushed himself to standing. “Nothing for it: Watson will pay you at visit upon the next full moon and don his handsome fur coat and see what is, or is not, to be seen. Thank you, Doctor Mortimer,” he smiled insincerely at our guest, “for presenting us with this fascinating problem.”

“But I haven’t finished!” exclaimed Doctor Mortimer.

Holmes collapsed back into the chair. “Dear me, there’s more?”

“What am I to do with Sir Henry?” whined Doctor Mortimer.

“Who in the devil is Sir Henry?” countered Holmes, with mirrored exasperation.

The spaniel barked in Holmes’ direction, and I stifled an amused chuckle.

“He’s the Baskerville heir,” explained Doctor Mortimer, “and he is arriving tomorrow morning. He was found farming in Canada. I’m terribly afraid that whatever killed Sir Charles will kill him as well. This curse may be real. This Hound, or whatever it is, may be real.”

“But Sir Henry may not want to go to Baskerville Hall,” I said. “He may collect his fortune and return to his homeland.”

“But if he wants to go?” pressed Doctor Mortimer.

“Tell him everything you have told us and let him decide,” I said.

“And if his decision is to go?”

Doctor Mortimer reeked of anxiety. I glanced at Holmes, who gave me a minute nod, then I leaned forward, reached out my arm, and clapped my hand upon Doctor Mortimer’s shoulder.

“Then I shall go, too."


	2. The King of Wands

“I’m going to Baskerville Hall, and nothing is going to stop me!”

I liked Sir Henry Baskerville from the moment I met him.

Perhaps it was just the great bearskin coat, which gave him an air of natural majesty but, no, I decided, even when he had been divested of his fine pelt and ensconced in the third-best seat in 221B Baker Street, the heir of the Baskervilles charmed.

He was sturdily built, and his skin had the weather-beaten quality of one who has spent most of his time in the open air. He had dark, alert eyes beneath dark, thick brows, and he looked at world with an open, frank expression to which it was easy to warm. Indeed, Doctor Mortimer, I, and even the curly-haired spaniel, who was called, I learned, simply Pup, seemed to be drawn to the young baronet.

Holmes, of course, maintained his distance and his reserve. Vampires are never charmed, well, almost never charmed by _were_. And _were_ , my nose told me, Sir Henry most decidedly was.

It took me the whole of Doctor Mortimer’s lengthy recapitulation of the curse of the Baskerville and his redacted version of Sir Charles’ death to determine that either Sir Henry Baskerville was a consummate actor, even better than Holmes, or that he did not, in fact, know that he was _were_.

At one point, Holmes interrupted.

“Excuse me, Doctor, Sir Henry, would you like me to open a window? I had been smoking a rather foul shag before you arrived, and I shouldn’t wish the fragrance, which is quite pungent, to disturb you.”

“It is a rather odd aroma, but not offensive,” replied Sir Henry without any note of artifice. “Please don’t trouble yourself on my part.”

Doctor Mortimer shot me a surreptitious glance. I raised an eyebrow but said nothing. If the same offer had been presented to Doctor Mortimer, he would have accepted gratefully. Appreciation for a vampire’s bouquet is something that no _were_ takes the trouble to acquire.

The question had been a little test of Holmes’s, and the result was curious, but the difference between Sir Henry’s behaviour and his scent was a problem that would, I felt certain, be made clear at a later moment.

When Doctor Mortimer finished his tale, Sir Henry cried,

“Whatever may or may not be roaming about the moor, it doesn’t scare me!”

“An admirable attitude,” said Holmes. “But would you object to Doctor Watson keeping you company, at least through the night of the full moon? I rather think Doctor Mortimer’s fears are unfounded and so cannot waste my valuable time on it, but I would like to be assured there is nothing truly sinister afoot.”

Sir Henry turned to me. “You are very welcome at Baskerville Hall, Doctor Watson. You would do me a great honour of being my first guest in my new home.”

“Thank you,” I said. “What are your plans?”

“I have appointments with solicitors and bankers in the morning, but I wish to do some shopping, too, so I expect we will journey to Dartmoor the day after tomorrow.”

“That suits me admirably,” I said. “Doctor Mortimer?”

“Yes, of course.” He still looked troubled.

“Don’t worry, Doctor. The three of us will get to bottom of this mystery,” said Sir Henry, confidently. “Meanwhile, I confess I covet your fine walking stick. If I am to play the part of a country squire, I’ll need a stout staff. Might I inquire where you bought it?”

“It was a gift,” stammered Doctor Mortimer. “I don’t know much of London…”

“I know a place,” I said. “We could go there tomorrow afternoon.”

“Excellent,” said Sir Henry.

* * *

And so it was that Doctor Mortimer, Sir Henry Baskerville, and I found ourselves in the _were_ quarter of London on the following afternoon. It was approaching dusk when we entered the little shop, which was replete with walking sticks and other wooden curios.

I cast a look at Doctor Mortimer, who, understanding at once the predicament in which we found ourselves, distracted Sir Henry while I paid the proper formalities to the were shopkeeper. Then I joined Doctor Mortimer and Sir Henry, and Doctor Mortimer peeled off to do offer the same offices.

“How about that stick?” I said, pointing a fine specimen of the Hercules plant.

“That’s the very devil,” agreed Sir Henry excitedly. He reached for it and, after examining it, set it down with his palm on the handle and tapped the floor.

“The King of Wands,” I said without knowing precisely why.

Sir Henry started. “What did you say?”

I shook my head. “I meant nothing by it. I don’t even know why the phrase occurred to me. I said, ‘The King of Wands.’”

“Curious. I had an encounter aboard the ship with a fortune teller. Or maybe it was a dream. Anyway, the first card of the three cards was the King of Wands.”

“I know nothing of soothsaying, and cards of another sort have usually foretold my pecuniary misfortune, but the stick suits you.”

Sir Henry nodded. “I feel as if I could walk miles of moorland with this in my hand.”

Doctor Mortimer approached, adding to the chorus of admiration for the young baronet’s choice.

Our joy was dampened, however, when the shopkeeper was questioned about the price of the item.

The sum quoted was outrageous and I said as much. It was a fine stick, but the proprietor wanted a veritable king’s ransom for the it. Attempts at haggling on the part of myself and Doctor Mortimer were cut short, and rather rudely, too.

What was this shopkeeper getting at? I stared, wonderingly. Was he affronted by Sir Henry’s lack of greeting, so affronted that he would stubbornly raise the price to the point of eschewing a sale? It seemed a bit extreme.

Sir Henry’s expression was sorrowful but resigned. “Very well. The coat was enough extravagance for one man.”

But as he made to hook the stick back on the wall, there was the jingling of the shop’s bell.

“I thought I would catch you here, gentlemen.”

Dear me, but a nightwalker in a _were_ shop is a thing to behold! Only Holmes could cross a threshold with such composure, as if he were doing absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

“Why such long faces?” he asked, wholly indifferent to change of atmosphere which his presence had wrought. The air was positively charged with electricity, like the expectant ether moments before a righteous storm.

I explained the matter of the walking stick, but when I spoke the price, the shopkeeper interrupted,

“Pardon me, but I believe you misheard me, good sirs.” Then, with a panicky eye on Holmes, he quoted a much more reasonable figure.

“Sold!” cried Sir Henry with delight.

We were nearing boundary of the _were_ quarter when Sir Henry stopped and gave voice to his gratitude.

“Thank you so much, Mister Holmes. Clearly your reputation as a detective is valuable even beyond mystery-solving. I am quite certain that I am in possession of this beautiful stick because that fellow,” he pointed back towards the shop with the head of the stick, “feared the wrath of the great sleuth! He probably is none too scrupulous with his accounts and wanted to avoid a detective’s interest in his establishment.”

I laughed. Holmes laughed. Doctor Mortimer tried to laugh.

The change in attitude was more likely because that shopkeeper fancied his blood still running in his veins and not down Holmes’s throat and that he opted for fair business practices out of sheer self-preservation, but it was not the moment to dispel Sir Henry’s presumptions.

We were in front of a public house, The Hive & Comb.

“Why don’t we take a moment to quench our thirst?” suggested Sir Henry. He was standing before the wooden sign affixed to the wall beside the door when a series of event occurred. They were, in very quick succession: the roll of cab wheels, the flash of a gun’s muzzle, the pop of said gun, the shove of a young baronet by a detective, and shouts of alarm.

“Stay with Sir Henry,” ordered Holmes as he flew, quite literally, after the cab.

“What in heaven’s name—?” said Sir Henry, picking up his fallen stick and brushing his coat. “Was that—oh, look!” He reached his hand out to the small metal circle that was lodged in the centre of the sign, in the entrance of the painted hive.

“ARGH!”

He recoiled, but not before Doctor Mortimer and I had both lunged for him.

“What—?”

“Let me, Sir Henry,” said Holmes, inserting himself between us and the sign. He drew the metal object out with his fingers and held it up.

“A silver bullet,” he pronounced.

A shudder of revulsion went through me, and Doctor Mortimer went ghastly pale. I released Sir Henry and grabbed Doctor Mortimer just as he slumped.

“Steady on, Doctor,” I murmured.

“A silver bullet!” exclaimed Sir Henry. “How extraordinary! I didn’t know such things existed or the weapons to launch them!”

There was much that was not yet dreamt of in Sir Henry Baskerville’s philosophy, but, once again, it was not the moment to enlighten him.

“Holmes, did you find who shot it, whoever was in the cab?” I asked, though I doubted it. Holmes hadn’t been gone long enough to make a meal of anyone, much less extract information from them.

“No,” said Holmes. His face bore a rare expression: amused bewilderment. “But I am not ready to give up. I will continue the search. Sir Henry, I would recommend you go immediately to your hotel with Doctor Mortimer and remain there until the morning. Watson will collect you and you can all proceed to the station together.”

“You think that bullet was meant for me? I thought the danger to my person was from a ghost dog on the moor!” Sir Henry spoke in half-jest but seeing the look on Holmes’s face quickly sobered him. He nodded thoughtfully. “I’m not a coward, but I am a stranger here. I will follow your advice, Mister Holmes, to the letter. Doctor Mortimer?”

“Yes, yes,” said Doctor Mortimer, wiping his brow and finally standing on his own two feet.

* * *

The driver of the cab was, as it turned out, a troll.

Holmes had him suspended in air, head down, feet up, and was menacing him in a manner that would’ve terrified the most stalwart of creatures.

“Tell me who hired you to drive past The Hive & Comb.”

“A gent like all the rest. His money was as good as any.”

“What did he look like?”

“Bit like you, guv. Tall, thin, didn’t stink like you, though, sweet-smelling.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, but he had a dark beard and dark glasses.”

Holmes questioned him more but getting no useful information save the very busy intersection where the passenger had alit, he finally relented and turned the creature right-side up and sat his cloven hooves on the ground.

“Gave me his name, though, when he paid me,” remarked the troll.

“Oh, yes?”

“Said his name was Sherlock Holmes.” The troll pronounced the last two words slowly and with exaggerated lip movements, like he was speaking a foreign language.

Holmes and I stared, and then Holmes burst out in a wild cackle. “Did he now? Well, well, well.”

He paid the troll handsomely, and we returned to Baker Street.

* * *

“What do you make of it all, Holmes?” I asked much later.

_It’s an ugly business, Watson, an ugly, dangerous business, and I’m not easy in my mind about it._

We might have been sitting opposite each other in our comfortable armchairs before a roaring fire, Holmes with his pipe, more fiddling than smoking, and I nursing a finger or two of whiskey.

We might have been, but we weren’t because I had to pack for the next day’s journey. And because my upstairs bedroom is not large enough for one who is packing to go somewhere and another who is uneasy in his mind about the first’s going, Holmes had shifted. He shifted in order to hover about me in a manifestation that reflect his anxiety but, practically speaking, would not impede my executing the task at hand. And thus, Holmes was, in that moment, hanging upside down from the ceiling, clinging to a bit of rope which had been hung for the purpose directly above the bed. He’d taken the form of that animal almost eponymous with his kind, the vampire bat.

And I did not so much hear his voice as understand his words in my mind.

_A shot at that range? If he’d meant to kill Sir Henry, he would’ve. It was a warning. Whatever is being planned, the probability is that it’s going to take place in Dartmoor._

“On the full moon?”

_Most likely. Also, our villain must know that Sir Henry’s were or why else use a silver bullet? Men die much cheaper than weres._

“Don’t I know it? I intend to have a conversation with Sir Henry about himself on the train, by the way.”

_Good. He may have just been turned or he may attribute the change to an ailment or, perhaps, good old-fashioned demonic possession. Depending on the circumstances of the turning, even some recently-turned nightwalkers can be confused or in denial about themselves, though we don’t have the luxury of remaining ignorant of our natures for too long._

“Yes. If Sir Henry has been living in a remote part of Canada, there may be no one knowledgeable enough to recognise the signs. His seems to a rather isolated existence, perhaps he had no one to consult. Having Doctor Mortimer present will help the conversation. But what about this other business? What do you really think is out there on the moor? And did it play any role at all in the death of Sir Charles Baskerville? It seems to me that it’s unlikely it’s a were. Surely, Doctor Mortimer would have recognised something, despite all his protests to the contrary. And that legend’s just a smoke screen.”

_Quite possibly. I don’t know what it is, Watson, and that’s what worries me. It might be a were. Or a nightwalker. Or even a troll._

I snorted. “A troll frightening a man to death? I suppose it’s possible.”

_Or it might be something we’ve only heard of in whisper._

“Remorhaz, the snow worm that can swallow a frost giant whole,” I suggested, remembering the nightmare-inducing illustration from a book in my uncle’s library which I read at far too tender an age.

 _I remember stories as a child of thri-keen, the preying matis monster with its paralysing venom and its double-bladed gythka_.

“Violet-breathed doppelgängers,” I countered.

_Ettins._

I shivered at mention of those horrors. “Stop, Holmes. I do want to sleep tonight.”

_Really? Pity._

I chuckled.

_I won’t be far, Watson._

“I thought the case wasn’t worth your valuable time.”

_The silver bullet changed that. I’m convinced it was a warning, but there’s no telling if whoever fired it cares about lesser casualties in their campaign._

“They obviously know you’re involved somehow.”

_Yes, they must’ve been following Doctor Mortimer and Sir Henry very closely. And they have a sense of humour. That’s unusual. So, no, I’m not leaving you to fight this thing, if it is a thing, on your own, but I still want you to write daily or more often if you feel necessary. Blot the reports, then burn the blotting pages with a dash of sage, and they will be delivered to me. Then post the letters to keep up the pretense._

Having received my orders and finished my task, I nodded and closed my trunk with a resolute thud.

_Finally!_

My trunk rose of its own volition and neatly deposited itself in the corner of the room, and Holmes was once more in his human-shape, looming behind me.

“Were you speaking in earnest about sleeping, Watson?”

I turned.

No one has ever questioned me as to what it is like to be near a nightwalker, but if they were to ask, I would say it is like the first sip of water after waking. It is refreshing and cool and marvelous, and I can feel its progression through my body, and I know I am the better for it.

That is what it is to stand next to Sherlock Holmes as we were standing, as close as two may stand without touching.

“No,” I said. “I was speaking in whole jest.”

Those were the last words that were spoken at all between us until just before dawn when Holmes brushed his lips against my temple and bid me a safe journey and retired to his own resting quarters.


	3. Death

As tempted as I was, I did not indulge my romantic nature and brood upon the changing scenery beyond the train window. I had a task, and when Sir Henry was settled, I shot Doctor Mortimer a look. He gave me a curt nod to proceed.

“Sir Henry, please forgive any impertinence, but were you the victim of some violence in the last, oh, say, six months? And since that event do you continue to suffer from what might be called fits, periods of time, nights, regular, though not frequent, when you cannot account for you own movements? Or perhaps when you are plagued by nightmares of vivid character?

If I’d struck him a fatal blow, the heir of the Baskervilles could not have looked more astonished. His expression was the very definition of ‘poleaxed.’

“Doctor Watson!” he cried when he’d found speech. “You said you had no acquaintance with soothsaying, but I verily doubt it. How in the name of all that is holy could you have divined the obscure nature of my recent unhappiness?”

I waved a dismissive hand, a gesture I learnt from Holmes. “Let us leave that for a bit later. Tell me about it.”

“My farm was in a remote part of the country. One night, four months ago, I did suffer an animal attack. I was found many miles from my home the following morning, half-dead.”

At this, Pup went from his master’s side to Sir Henry’s and licked the latter’s hand.

“What kind of animal?” Doctor Mortimer asked.

“Wolves it was thought, though there was no evidence save my mauled body. I did not see the animal approach. The first blow came from behind.”

“No tracks, fur, scat?” I probed.

“Not according to the kind family who found me and nursed me back to a semblance of health, and not two weeks later when I searched the site myself.”

“And then?” I prompted.

“The grandmother of the family gave me a pouch of herbs and instructed me to brew a small portion and drink it before the night of the full moon. She was a wise woman, a native of those parts. Nevertheless, to my peril, I ignored her counsel and on the night of the next full moon was wracked with the most violent illness I’ve ever known and, as you say, gruesome and violent dreams that made me fear for my sanity. After that, I did as the old woman advised and passed the following two full moon nights in complete blankness. I lived alone, and I had no one in which to confide. I was about to travel to the city to consult a physician about it when news of my inheritance arrived, and I thought London physicians might be more astute than colonial ones. In fact, yesterday, before meeting you and Mister Holmes, I took a stroll along Harley Street, thinking I might make an appointment with one of the specialists there, but I lost my nerve. What could I tell them? It all sounded absurd.”

“At the risk of sounding arrogant or fulsome, Sir Henry, Doctor Mortimer and I are among the best physicians you could’ve consulted about this particular condition.”

I looked at Doctor Mortimer, and he nodded.

“I know what you are because it is what I am,” I said. “I was attacked by wolves in Afghanistan at the Battle of Maiwand.”

“I was attacked by a lone wolf on seaside holiday,” murmured Doctor Mortimer, “in the last year of my medical studies.”

Sir Henry frowned. Then he asked solemnly, “What are we?”

Doctor Mortimer and I replied as one, “Werewolves.”

Sir Henry’s eyebrows rose. His jaw dropped. His face contorted in disbelief, but then it fell into something less outraged. Pup leapt into his lap, but he hardly noticed.

“You will not believe it at first,” I said.

“I don’t!” cried Sir Henry.

“No one does,” added Doctor Mortimer with a rueful chuckle. “No one does.”

Sir Henry looked from me to Doctor Mortimer. Then he leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest, and stared out the window. Finally, he said,

“The herbs?”

“Some of our kind take preparations to make the human forget what happens as wolf,” said Doctor Mortimer.

“The first full moon after being turned is always the most horrific. The shifting does become more manageable with time,” I said.

“Part of me is waiting for you to tell me this is a great joke,” said Sir Henry.

“Do you find that since the attack your senses are more acute, especially your sense of smell?” I asked. “That’s how Doctor Mortimer and I recognised you. Your scent is like ours.”

“Do you find your appetite has changed, that you have greater desire for meats?” queried Doctor Mortimer. “Do you notice a higher tolerance for cold? There may be other novel cravings and impulses that you can’t explain.”

Sir Henry’s eyes went to his bearskin coat which was hung on a hook. “Does everyone in the world know about the existence of these creatures but me?”

“No,” I said. “Most humans are ignorant of all the other variants of life which are existing about them. _Weres_ , that’s what we call ourselves, prefer to keep it that way. There are places where we meet, though. The shop yesterday was in the were quarter of London.”

“ _Were_ quarter!” repeated Sir Henry with some astonishment.

“Every dog likes a stick,” I remarked lightly.

Pup woofed, and Sir Henry began to pet him, distractedly.

“The silver bullet,” he said.

“Was a very serious threat,” I said. “And in your lupin state would be one of the few things that could kill you. Did you note a natural repulsion when you reached for it?”

“Yes, but I ignored the feeling. I thought it was just rogue cowardice.”

“It would behoove you to start paying closer attention to your instincts,” advised Doctor Mortimer mildly.

“I have taken the liberty of purchasing two volumes of literature for you. They are the definitive texts on our kind. I will give them to you in private, and I don’t recommend storing them on the shelves of the library of Baskerville Hall.”

“Warner and Kettle?” asked Doctor Mortimer.

“Of course,” I said. “The thirteenth edition of Kettle was just released.”

“Oh, very good, very good,” said Doctor Mortimer. “Doctor Watson and I will also answer whatever questions you have.”

“I seem to have too many to have one,” said Sir Henry. He smiled as if remembering something, then shook his head.

“Yes?” I asked.

“Nothing.” Sir Henry shifted, and Pup abandoned his lap for my feet. “So, what has this to do with the legend of the Hound of the Baskerville and what may have killed Sir Charles?”

“I do not know. And neither does Holmes,” I said as I leaned down to scratch behind Pup’s ears.

“Oh, is Mister Holmes also…like us?”

“No,” I said, smiling. “But he must be the one to tell you about himself.”

At this, Sir Henry turned his gaze back to the window and seemed to sink into his own thoughts for a while. When he spoke, it wasn’t a question.

“You will be with me on the next full moon.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Yes,” Doctor Mortimer said.

“Good. I can’t say I believe you, but nothing I’ve learned about either of you suggests that you are fools or madmen, so let’s let the full moon speak for itself. Now, Doctor Mortimer, am I to understand there are only two servants at Baskerville Hall?”

“Yes, the Barrymores, a husband and wife. They are in their sixties and have worked at the Hall all of their lives. Sir Charles let a quiet life, and they were all he required, but if I’m not mistaken, he was their third master. Or perhaps their fourth.”

“Goodness,” I breathed.

“The life expectancy leaves something to be desired, doesn’t it?” said Sir Henry with a gloomy sigh.

“I’m afraid the only men of education in the area are Mister Frankland of Lafter Hall, a retired gentleman keenly interested in astronomy and history, of the latter, specifically the Neolithic settlements in the area, and Mister Stapleton, a botanist. And myself, of course.” He adjusted his tie unnecessarily.

Sir Henry hummed. “I am a solitary man by nature but can converse as freely with a farmer as with a gentleman.”

“There are moorland farmers, too,” added Doctor Mortimer.

“I suppose there are always trips to London if life becomes too lonely,” mused Sir Henry, “but I fancy that for some time I will be occupied with settling in, especially if, and I still say ‘if,’ what you say is true.”

“There is also a mystery to solve,” I said.

Sir Henry smiled. It was a smile so warm as to make me note its absence from the first part of our conversation. “Yes!” he said. “We shall get to the bottom of this hound business.”

Pup howled, and we all laughed.

* * *

Sir Henry assaulted Doctor Mortimer with thousands of questions as we rode in the wagonette that had met us at the station. I had but one question of my own.

“Why are there mounted soldiers?”

Our driver replied, “Selden the Notting Hill murderer escaped from prison three days ago. A very pretty purse offered to anyone with information.”

I exchanged looks with my fellow passengers, and it was a good five minutes before Sir Henry regained his former spirit.

Doctor Mortimer declined Sir Henry’s invitation to dinner, citing work that was awaiting him at his home and left us with a promise to call on Sir Henry the following day.

A tall, handsome man of sixty-odd years with a square grey beard stepped from the shadow. A woman of the same age joined him.

“Welcome, Sir Henry to Baskerville Hall!” proclaimed the man. “Oh!” he gasped when Sir Henry approached.

Introductions and greetings were exchanged, and I couldn’t help but notice the awe with which the servants of Baskerville Hall held their new master.

We were ushered inside and given a grand tour and an even grander meal.

Sir Henry yawned. “I’d offer you port and cigars, Doctor Watson, but....”

“I confess I am in too weary a state to appreciate them if you did.”

“Just as well. Until tomorrow then.”

“Are you an early riser, Sir Henry?”

“Oh, do call me ‘Henry.’ I am as rule awake with the lark, but I’m so bone-tired tonight I feel as if I might hibernate until spring.”

“A late breakfast, then.”

“Very late. I shall let Barrymore know. Good night, Watson. I’m dreadfully glad you’re here.”

“As am I, Henry,” I said. “Good night.”

* * *

I could barely keep my eyes open, but one of the last things I saw was sitting on a branch outside the bedroom window. I moved closer, and it didn’t flee or even blink. On the contrary, it seemed to stare even more intently at me.

It was an owl, a magnificent specimen of barn owl with a snowy white, heart-shaped visage and two eyes which bore right through me.

It was still and remained so even when I opened the window and cried, with frustration borne exhaustion,

“Holmes, if that’s you, all I have to say is that in addition to everything else we’ve got a fugitive killer on the loose!”

Then I jerked the window shut and went to bed!


	4. Death

My dear Holmes,

Though the day started late enough, it has been a long one. Sir Henry’s first visitor after breakfast was Mister Frankland of Lafter Hall. He is a grey-whiskered, red-faced man of a cheerful disposition, and the three of us had a long and amicable chat after which Sir Henry abandoned us, citing the great number of business matters demanding his attention. Mister Frankland offered to show me the nearby Neolithic settlements, and as the weather was fair and my charge safely ensconced in his study behind a pile of documents, I readily agreed.

As we walked, I asked Mister Frankland what he thought of the legend of the hound of the Baskervilles.

He eyed me closely and waited a few minutes before replying.

“Perhaps because you’re an outsider, Doctor Watson, or perhaps for some other reason, I am inclined to tell you the truth, a truth that I haven’t yet confessed to anyone.”

My eyebrows rose. “I shall guard your confidence,” I vowed solemnly.

One corner of his mouth twitched. “I’ve seen it. I’ve seen the creature that the locals are calling the Hound of the Baskervilles.”

“You have?”

“Oh, yes. And it isn’t a hound. It’s a wolf.”

My blood turned to ice. He continued.

“I usually have my telescope pointed overhead, but three months ago, on the night of the full moon, the night that Sir Charles Baskerville died, I pointed it to the earth and saw an enormous glowing wolf making its way across the moor towards Baskerville Hall. I am an educated man, Doctor, a man of science and reason. Nevertheless, I saw what I saw, and I believe that the sight of that creature, near and menacing, was what killed Sir Charles. It gave me a cold shiver of dread to see it from afar, and I can only imagine with horror the reaction it would produce up close. I said nothing because, well, who would believe it?”

He looked at me as if he expected incredulity, but I simply asked,

“Had you seen this creature any other night?”

“No.”

“Or since?”

“No. I kept vigil for a while, hoping to see it again, but eventually I returned to my star-gazing. Our moorland wolf appeared the following full moon, but not the monster.”

“Moorland wolf?”

“There is a peculiar wolf that roams the moor on full moon nights, but it is a small, brown, skittish animal. I have often thought, well…”

“Yes?”

He paused and once more gave me an appraising look. “That perhaps on other nights of the month it is not a wolf at all.”

I met his gaze and could not help smiling. “You’re a man of science, Mister Frankland.”

“Yes, and the bedrock of science is observation. I see the wolf. I don’t see the wolf. Where does the wolf go?”

“Where, indeed. Did the moorland woof appear on the night Sir Charles died?”

“No. Just the monster.”

I hummed. “Where did the wolf go that night?”

“Yes,” said Mister Frankland. “That is another question. The longer I live, Doctor Watson, the greater my sense that there is a world beyond my own reckoning. Not in the next life, you understand me, but in this one. It is like there is a veil. If only I could reach out and sweep it away.” He made the gesture with his hand, then his gaze drifted to the sky. “Are the answers in the stars?” he mused. Then he shook his head. “I thought so once, now I’m not so certain.” He shot me a glance. “I expect you think I’m a doddering old fool.”

“Not at all,” I said.

He brightened. “I was watching for monsters, I am always watching for stars, but now I also am watching for an escaped murderer! You’ve heard the news of the fugitive Seldon?”

“Yes.”

“The reward only makes the hunt more exciting! I think I’ve seen glimpses of him, but nothing substantial enough to make a claim. Yet.”

We reached the steep slope with the grey circular rings of stone, and Mister Frankland was a first-rate guide, gifting me with his enthusiasm and wonder for the ancient peoples.

By the time I returned to Baskerville Hall, I’d worked up a hearty appetite, and Sir Henry and I enjoyed a sumptuous luncheon.

While we ate, I told Sir Henry all that Mister Frankland had claimed he’d seen on the nights of the full moon, but as Barrymore was about, I spoke as an incredulous human might about rural superstition and imaginations run wild. Sir Henry’s eyes widened, but he followed my example and offered only the most perfunctory, dismissive banalities in reply.

“I want to stretch my legs,” said Sir Henry when the meal had concluded. “Are you up for another stroll?”

“Absolutely,” I replied.

As we set out, I noted that Sir Henry Baskerville did look the part of the country squire dressed as he was in dark brown tweeds and carrying his new walking stick. Then only mannerism that gave him away was his gait, which very far from the brisk, efficient march of his newly-acquired rank. His step was slower and almost lumbering.

I didn’t mind. There was so much to look at on the moor.

Our path eventually crossed that of a small, slim man carrying a tin box for botanical specimens and a green butterfly net. He was chasing after something with full eagerness but halted his pursuit when he caught sight of us.

He ran towards us, smiling broadly.

“Do I have the honour of meeting Sir Henry Baskerville?”

“You do,” replied Sir Henry with a slight bow. “And I believe you must be Mister Stapleton.”

“Right you are. Stapleton of Merripit House, at your service. Doctor Mortimer surely mentioned me.” His breath was sweet like spring flowers, and his eyes seemed to drink in the young baronet with an intensity I’ve only seen matched by yours, my dear Holmes, when you are on the scent.

“He did. This is Doctor John Watson, my friend,” said Sir Henry.

“How do you do?” I said.

“Doctor Watson? Not the Doctor Watson who chronicles the adventures of the great detective Sherlock Holmes?”

“The very one,” I said.

He spoke gleefully, like a child at Christmas. “Is Sherlock Holmes taking an interest in the area? Perhaps in our little legend? Or the death of Sir Charles?”

“No, I’m only here as a friend of Sir Henry’s.”

Stapleton calmed himself, then smiled and hummed. “It is a wonderful place, the moor. You never tire of the moor. You cannot think the wonderful secrets which it contains. It is so vast, and so barren, and so mysterious. Look at this great plain to the north and the bright green spots scattered thickly over it. It is the great Grimpen Mire. One false step means death to man or beast. Moorland ponies who err,” he made a noise, “pay with their lives. They sink into the bog-holes, crying out in agony until the earth consumes them.”

I shivered.

“I have a found one or two paths which a very active man can take,” continued Stapleton.

“But why would you want to penetrate such a place?” asked Sir Henry.

“For these,” said Stapleton. He held up the tin box. “Amazing creatures, butterflies. Masters of the consummate and elegant transformation!” He smiled. “And the rarest species are found there, on the little islands cut off on all sides by the impassable Mire.”

“So what do you think of the legend of the Hound of the Baskervilles?” I asked.

Stapleton shrugged. “I am a man of science. It’s nonsense. Crude superstition possibly aided by escaping gases and noises from the quagmire.”

“And Sir Charles’ death?” queried Sir Henry.

“I think Sir Charles believed in the legend whole-heartedly and when he saw something that confirmed his worst fear…” Stapleton made another noise. “Very sad.” Then he looked once more at Sir Henry and his clouded expression cleared at once. “But now Baskerville Hall is blessed with a lord worthy of its greatness.” His eyes glowed and did not release their hold on Sir Henry until something small and brown fluttered by.

“Oh!” exclaimed Stapleton. “My quarry. Forgive me, I must take my leave of you now, but we will see each other again!”

And with that, he hurried away.

Sir Henry and I watched him heading straight into the very area of natural treachery which he’d been describing, the great Grimpen Mire. We followed him easy enough in his light grey suit with green butterfly net waving. He bounded from tuft to tuft, zigzagging without hesitation.

Sir Henry and I walked until dusk. I showed him the Neolithic sites that I’d visited earlier with Mister Frankland and imparted the most memorable insights of the historian’s tour. We both agreed that it might be worthwhile to get Doctor Mortimer and, perhaps, Barrymore to show us exactly where Sir Charles had died.

Dinner was another excellent meal, and afterwards Sir Henry and I decided to enjoy port and cigars before a snapping, crackling log-fire in a great old-fashioned fireplace. The large, lofty room was quite a wonder itself, what with the oaken paneling; a high, thin window of old stained glass; and an enormous bearskin rug, complete with head of the beast. Framed portraits hung on the walls, and I stood to examine them, noting also two large oval gaps.

As if answering my unspoken query, Sir Henry said, “Stag heads. I can’t abide them or any other kind of animal mount. I had Barrymore get rid of them this morning.”

Not quite the typical country squire, after all, I thought, but said nothing. I was reading the names and dates of the Baskerville ancestors distinguished in oils.

“There is another gap,” I said. “Judging by the dates, it would be your great grandfather, I think.”

“Sir Auberon.”

Sir Henry and I both turned to see Barrymore, who arrived with neither of us the wiser.

“He was my first master. A very good man.” Barrymore’s eyes fell the floor.

“He wasn’t fond of portraits?” I asked.

“No, but apart from that, I think the later lords considered any memorial,” Barrymore swallowed, “unlucky.”

“Unlucky?” echoed Sir Henry.

Barrymore did not look up. “Sir Auberon died in the great Grimpen Mire. It swallowed him whole.”

Sir Henry and I gasped. We stared at Barrymore and then at each other.

“He went out,” Barrymore coughed, “to help a neighbour and never returned. His cloak was found on an island of the Mire.”

“Dear Lord,” breathed Sir Henry, aghast.

“Will you be requiring anything else, sir?” asked Barrymore politely.

“No, thank you very much, Barrymore,” said Sir Henry in a soft, distracted voice.

When Barrymore had left, I settled in an armchair beside Sir Henry.

“What exactly have I inherited, Doctor?” asked the young baronet with a mirthless chuckle. “What exactly has fortune favoured me with?!”

I shook my head. “What a place. And to think Stapleton simply leapt about it like it was a meadow.” Then a thought occurred. “Oh, before we retire, I will bring you the two volumes of which I spoke on the train.”

Sir Henry seemed to welcome the change of subject, for his countenance smoothed somewhat, and his reply was without gloom. “Good. I’ve dealt with the most pressing matters pertaining to the estate and now will have more time for reading, reading I consider very necessary to do before the full moon. I have been thinking of all you and Doctor Mortimer revealed on the train, and last night before I fell asleep, I did an inventory of all the changes I’ve noted in myself since the wolf attack. The result is that I am less incredulous than I was yesterday.”

“It grows on you,” I acknowledged.

Sir Henry exhaled and leaned forward in his chair. He seemed to be weighing something specific in his mind, so I waited.

“I told you about the fortune teller I encountered on the boat and the three cards.”

“Yes. You said one card was the King of Wands.”

“That was the first card. The second card was Death.” He pressed his lips tightly together and stared at the fire. “Is that what is awaiting me on the full moon, Doctor? Death?”

“Not if I can help it! Or Holmes. Or Doctor Mortimer, for that matter.”

Sir Henry smiled. “I shouldn’t believe in such thing. I am not, as Mister Stapleton and Mister Frankland profess, a man of science, but I am a sane man and a practical man. And I find the quagmire of believing in something so horrific to the point of succumbing to it, fatally, like my uncle Sir Charles did with the legend of the hound, to be as perilous as the great Grimpen Mire. Best given a wide and prudent berth. But here at every turn I am presented with a new possibility for my own demise. Shall it be a silver bullet? Or the teeth of a monstrous hound? Or sheer fright by same? Or, perhaps, held the loving embrace of the great Grimpen Mire?” He made a noise of disgust and rose and hurled the remainder of his cigar in the fire.

“I hope you die an old man in your bed,” I said. “And I will do all I can to further that hope. But, going back to the card, might it have a less literal meaning?”

“Such as?”

“Setting aside the business of being the heir of the Baskervilles for a moment, you have died to your former wholly human self even if you do not yet fully accept the fact. Every breath I breathe in your presence confirms that you are _were_. There will eventually be a mourning, a grieving for the notions you held of yourself before the attack. Your material inheritance could be said to muddle your corporal one. Or, perhaps, make it easier.”

“Too busy being a country squire to worry about being a werewolf?” Sir Henry quipped.

“Something like that. I had far too much leisure on my hands when I arrived in London after my change. There are many places to mourn. I do not recommend the gambling dens.” My rueful snort said all I wanted to say about that!

“I do like your interpretation of the Death card more than the possible literal ones: that I will meet a devilishly gruesome end.”

“It is just a thought. I honestly know nothing of fortune-telling.”

“And I still doubt it,” said Sir Henry with a wry smile.

The owl of the previous night did not deign me with another visit, but I caught sight of something else unusual outside my window when I retired: a light signaling from out on the moor.

My first thought was that it was might be you, my dear Holmes, but I immediately felt my folly: you do not need so crude and obtuse a method to communicate with me. I wondered just who the intended recipient was. The Barrymores? I took up the books I promised to Sir Henry, stripped down to socked feet, and padded quietly as possible while straining my ears to catch sound of something that might clear up the mystery.

My efforts were not in vain.

Though the speakers were whispering, I heard them. It was the Barrymores.

_“He will not keep his side of the bargain, John! He took the provisions, but he will not go!”_

_“He had never been a man of his word, Eliza.”_

_“I’ve begged him to leave. I’ve given him the means to take himself and his evil elsewhere. And he just takes and asks for more. More, more, more. Nothing will never be enough! I shan’t give him a penny or a crust of bread more, John!”_

_“You’ve believed in that boy far too long, my dear. You were wrong to help him. He has played on your weakness his whole life.”_

_“Do you think he will bring evil upon Sir Henry as he did upon Sir Auberon?”_

_“I think the boy brings evil to all he touches.”_

_“Shall we warn Sir Henry? Shall we go to the authorities?”_

_“Sir Henry seems a very good man. He reminds me so much of Sir Auberon. But…I don’t know, my dear. We risk losing our positions and the roof over our head if we tell him the truth.”_

_“We risk having our throats cut in our beds if we don’t!”_

_“Perhaps. Not tonight. No more to be done. Come, let’s go to bed.”_

I hurried down the hall.

Sir Henry bid me enter after I knocked.

He was standing at the window. He put a finger to his lips, then beckoned me with a wave.

It was the barn owl, sitting upon a branch just beyond the window, staring in at us with that otherworldly gaze.

“It visited me last night,” I whispered. “Perhaps it got the wrong room.”

“Or it’s doing an inventory of the Hall,” whispered Sir Henry. “Odd, it bears a strange resemblance to…”

“Who?” I queried.

“…the creature on the boat who read the three cards for me.”

“Really?!” I exclaimed in too loud a voice.

The owl started, flapped its wings, and disappeared into the night.

“Oh, blast!” swore Sir Henry as he wrenched himself from the window. “I’m going mad. Seeing portends and dangers everywhere!”

“Well, to help you along that path,” I said glibly, “here are the books.”

He took them. “Thank you.”

“And I just overheard a strange conversation.” I described the signal light on the moor and recounted the Barrymores’ exchange.

“What in the hell does it all mean?” cried Sir Henry when I was done. He gazed around the room, helplessly. “Should I confront them in the morning?”

“I don’t know. The good news is that they seem to have your wellbeing at heart.”

“Many people do, it appears, people I’ve only just met, but why do I suspect that these many people will attending my funeral in a short span of time?!” He ran a distracted hand through his hair.

“It’s been a long day, Henry.”

“Indeed. Thank you for the books, Doctor.”

That was the day, Holmes. I do not know where you are or what form you are taking, but I have consummate faith that you will cast light on all the strange happenings, and, by the end of this affair, the heir of the Baskervilles will rest easier in his bed and in his skin and in his thoughts.

But until then, I remain, your devoted,

Watson


	5. The 10 of Swords (Reversed)

Dear Holmes,

A brief summary of the day but I sense that the night may bring more events of interest. Sir Henry looked very unsettled at breakfast, and when he and I had a moment out of earshot of Barrymore, he confessed that he still had not come to a decision about what to do about what I’d heard the night before.

He and I spent the morning in the library, he, absorbed in one of the books I’d given him.

Doctor Mortimer and Pup arrived after lunch and we went for a walk on the moor. Sir Henry asked us question about _were_ life, and Doctor Mortimer answered them as best as we were about. Doctor Mortimer also expounded on different features in the moorland landscape. He confirmed the peril of the great Grimpen Mire and passed along the gossip that Mister Frankland was in a very agitated state because the previous night he thought he’d caught a glimpse of Selden. He’d informed the authorities at once, but far as Doctor Mortimer knew, no trace of the escaped convict had been found in the area Frankland had indicated.

“Which was, by the way, only a mile or so from Baskerville Hall,” said Doctor Mortimer.

I shot Sir Henry a quizzical look.

“Speak freely,” he said.

“Do you think, perhaps, it was Selden who was signaling last night?” I asked. Then I repeated the conversation I’d overheard for Doctor Mortimer’s benefit.

“They’ve been helping a convicted murderer!” cried Sir Henry.

“It sounded as if they were trying to convince him to leave this area.”

“And if there were, say, a familial tie,” added Doctor Mortimer.

Sir Henry nodded thoughtfully.

“Oh, Doctor, I had a conversation with Mister Frankland. He’s spotted you, you know, on full moon nights.”

“Yes,” said Doctor Mortimer. “And he’s suspicious.”

I hummed. “But he did not see you on the night of Sir Charles’ death. He only saw the hound, which he says is not a hound, but a wolf.”

Doctor Mortimer went pale. “I was about. Surely I was about.”

“Maybe you were frightened of the hound just as Sir Charles was and hid,” Sir Henry suggested.

“That must be it,” said Doctor Mortimer.

“You’d have to be able to change your form. To increase in size and take on a glow. I don’t know any _were_ who can do that. Or maybe Frankland is just fabricating the story, intentionally or unintentionally.”

“After dinner,” said Sir Henry firmly. “After dinner, we will see if there are any more signals.”

“And if there are?” inquired Doctor Mortimer in a weak voice.

“Then we get the truth out of the Barrymores, and if it is Selden, we go after him. I want you there, too, Doctor Mortimer.”

Doctor Mortimer gulped. “Of course.”

We returned to the Hall in silence, each sunk in his own thoughts.

And so that is how things stand, my dear Holmes. Sir Henry is once more in the library, and I am writing you in my bedroom. I’ll remain here until it is time to dress for dinner, and after dinner, we will see what happens.

I found the raven feather on the rug beside my bed this morning. Thank you.

Watson

* * *

“Is it Selden?!” bellowed Sir Henry, looking more ferocious than I’d yet seen. He was not shaking her, but his voice was shaking the rafters.

“Yes!” Eliza Barrymore cried.

“Let’s go! Watson, Mortimer!” A general commanding his troops could not have sounded more imperious, and the soldier in me responded at once. “Keep him in his place, Mrs. Barrymore, keep him signaling, and I shall find him.”

Doctor Mortimer’s Pup whined as we marched out of the Hall and into the night.

The doctor was armed with the lantern, and Sir Henry with naught but his walking stick. With my revolver in my hand, I felt myself the only one equipped to deal with an escaped convict.

But, of course, I didn’t make this observation aloud.

Though it was only Sir Henry’s third day in the area, he led the way without his hesitation, and I noticed at once that his pace was much faster than his daytime one. We blundered against boulders and forced our way through gorse bushes. We panted up hills and rushed down slopes, but finally we closed in on our prey.

Selden ran. So did we.

Sir Henry caught up with the fiend on the jagged face of a stone-strewn slope.

“Stop!” yelled Sir Henry.

I followed behind him. Though the figure we were hunting was mostly hidden in shadow, I noted a release of an eerie violet-coloured light, or perhaps it was smoke like that of incense, as he turned.

I heard a metal noise. Then I saw a hand raised and realised it was Sir Henry’s hand with a dagger in it. The dagger’s slightly curved blade gave it the appearance of a large claw. Sir Henry threw the walking stick down with his other hand, and a glance told me that the dagger had been hidden inside the stick.

The figure lunged at Sir Henry, and the claw came down in one swift stroke. There was a loud groan as I rounded them with my weapon trained.

The ear!

Sir Henry’s claw was sunk deep in the centre of the chest of what looked like a man in a prisoner’s garb save for one feature.

“It is a goblin,” I said.

“A what?” asked Sir Henry, panting.

“That triangular point to the ears is the mark of a goblin.”

“Oh!” Doctor Mortimer had finally arrived with the lantern. He looked over my shoulder. “Oh, do they exist? I always thought that they were the stuff of fairytales. Goblins. Baking children into pies and eating them. Dear God, what’s happening?”

The goblin wasn’t just dying. He was changing.

Shrinking. Melting. Fading.

Sir Henry stepped back. And so did Doctor Mortimer and I.

Oddly enough, there was plenty of light.

The dagger fell for lack of flesh to hold it. Sir Henry scooped it up at once, and I offered him the rest of the walking stick. He sheathed the dagger and held the stick like a club.

“It’s shifting,” I said, recognising the way that Holmes transformed himself.

In a few moments, the goblin was no more.

And in its place was a child.

A human child. A boy.

We all stared, gawking.

The boy opened his eyes.

“Sir Aubie?”

Sir Henry smiled and knelt beside the child.

“Yes, my lad?”

“I’m cold.”

I tore off my coat, and we wrapped the boy in it.

Sir Henry passed me his stick as he lifted the boy in his arms. “It’s time to go home.”

“Mummy will be cross. I ran away.”

“Not at all,” said Sir Henry. “She’ll be very happy we found you.”

Sir Henry looked at me. My own face must’ve mirrored his own perplexity, but I nodded encouragement. I, in turn, looked at Doctor Mortimer who looked as if he might faint.

“Pull yourself together, Doctor,” I said roughly, “at least until we get back to the Hall.”

He seemed to come back to himself and nodded. “Yes, of course.”

It didn’t occur to me until we had almost reached Baskerville Hall that the light which shone upon us was far stronger than it ought to have been. It being a cloudy night, there was little light from celestial sources, and Doctor Mortimer’s lantern, thought a fine working specimen, could not possibly produce such a glow. Something, the opposite of a shadow, was following us, hovering.

“Peter!” screamed Mrs. Barrymore as she raced towards Sir Henry.

“Mummy!” The boy leapt from Sir Henry’s arms and ran towards her.

She embraced him, then studied his ears, rubbing the tops of each one until he yelped.

“Mummy!”

Barrymore met them, wrapping his arms around mother and child.

It was not to be end of the strange phenomena of the night, for when we reached the three, mother and father looked at us, beaming.

They were young.

Barrymore’s beard was dark, and there wasn’t a line or crease on either face.

They looked at each other and gasped, each bringing a hand to the other’s cheek. Then they looked at the grinning boy who was tucked snug between them.

“Sir Aubie found me,” said the boy.

“No, Peter, this isn’t Sir Aubie. It’s Sir Henry. You’ve been lost for a long time,” said his mother. She looked at Sir Henry. “No words can express our gratitude. We are your humble servants.” She made to get to her knees, but Sir Henry stopped her.

“Let’s go inside. I think you owe me some explanation, and Peter must be hungry.”

“Starving!” cried Peter.

At this point, my attention was caught by the light. It seemed to coalesce into a point, and that point grew and took shape. There was silhouette, then outline, an outline I recognised.

“Holmes?”

“Good evening, Watson. Doctor Mortimer. Sir Henry. Mister Barrymore, Mrs. Barrymore, Peter, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

* * *

Young Peter Barrymore and Pup were curled together upon the great bearskin rug before the fire when we all finally settled down to discuss matters. Discussion had, in fact, been postponed by the arrival of a very agitated Mister Frankland of Lafter Hall.

“Where is he? Where is he?” he demanded after banging on the door with his fist. “Where’s Selden? I saw him. I saw Sir Henry and Doctor Watson and Doctor Mortimer chasing after him. Then I saw a light, a very strange glow, like a cloud, hovering above you. I followed it, yes, like the Magi, I followed the light, and it brought me right here. Oh, who are you? Where’s Barrymore?”

Barrymore hardly knew what to say of the loss of his decades.

Sir Henry stepped in with a reply. “This is a young relation of the Barrymores come with his wife and child to replace the older couple who have taken Sir Charles’ generous legacy and retired.”

“When did this happen?” Mister Frankland looked bewildered. “And what of Selden?”

“Perhaps the great Grimpen Mire swallowed him up,” said Sir Henry.

“Nonsense! You weren’t anywhere near the Mire. I saw you. You confronted Selden!”

“You are overwrought, Mister Frankland,” said Holmes, who was standing behind me. “Rest.”

“Who are you? I don’t need a rest! I need answers!”

And with that, the visitor collapsed to the floor.

I swung ‘round and shot a look at Holmes, who said, unrepentant,

“Put him in a guestroom, Sir Henry. He will wake when it is convenient for him to do so.”

“Convenient for whom?!” I cried.

“Us, of course,” said Holmes.

“Peter was seven years old,” began Mrs. Barrymore. “One day, he went out to play and didn’t come home. Sir Auberon assembled a group to look for him, which included farmers, servants, and his son, Malcolm. All the party returned, except Sir Auberon. Sir Malcolm was carrying Peter in his arms, just as you were tonight, Sir Henry, except…well…Peter’s ears were different. Pointed. I didn’t understand it. No one did. The party left again to search for Sir Auberon. They found his cloak on one of the islands of the Mire. That was all. After a while, he was declared dead, and Sir Malcolm became the head of the family. Peter grew up but he was different. He was…”

“Bad,” Barrymore supplied. “Bad. Trouble at school. Then no school at all. He left the area and for many years we didn’t hear of him. But then the Notting Hill murders. He was going by the name Selden by then.”

“When he escaped, he applied to me for help,” said Mrs. Barrymore. “But I just wanted him to go away. No prison could hold him for long. But the ears…all these years I couldn’t help thinking that he was not my son. That someone else was living in my son’s body.”

“You were right,” said Holmes gently. “Sir Henry broke the hobgoblin’s spell tonight.”

“I was simply listening to my instincts,” said Sir Henry. He looked over at me and smiled. “Someone told me I should be doing more of that.” Then his gaze went to Doctor Mortimer, who was slumped half-asleep in a big armchair, an empty snifter which had held the third of his medicinal brandies on the little table beside him. “So’s our good country doctor, apparently. Barrymore, make up another two rooms. One for Doctor Mortimer, and one for Mister Holmes.”

“Yes, sir,” said Barrymore. “Eliza was right, Sir Henry. No words can express our gratitude.”

“What was lost is found,” said Sir Henry. “I hope you don’t mind the story that I told Mister Frankland.”

“It’s as plausible as any for the changes in us.” Barrymore touched his dark hair. “We can go by our second names. It’s a small price to pay for the return of our son and a chance to live the years we were denied.” He smiled at his wife. Then he looked toward the rug. “May we…?”

“Of course,” said Sir Henry. “Put him to bed.”

“One question, Barrymore,” interjected Holmes.

“Yes, sir?”

“This rug. How long as it been in the family?”

“It arrived soon after Sir Auberon’s death. I don’t know its origin. Sir Malcolm had it installed when he removed his father’s portrait.”

“Thank you.”

When the Barrymore family had retired, Sir Henry turned to Holmes. “It has not escaped my notice that you appeared from nowhere, Mister Holmes.”

“Not from nowhere, Sir Henry. I did, however, cast a bit of light on things.”

“Oh, God,” I groaned and smacked my hand to my face. “A pun, Holmes? A pun?”

Sir Henry continued. “Doctor Watson told me you were not…like he and me and Doctor Mortimer.”

“I am not, but I was not like you even before I was not like you, if that makes any sense.”

“None of this makes a damn bit of sense!” cried Sir Henry. “But we saved a child and the rest of the world from a very foul creature and, in doing so, gave a family a second chance at a new life. Good work, all. Shall we call it a night?” He looked upon the dozing Pup and said, “How I envy him!” Then he looked at Doctor Mortimer and sighed.

“No need to exert yourself,” said Holmes cavalierly.

“Showing off,” I muttered.

“Why not?” shot back Holmes.

Sir Henry chuckled and licked his lips. “You’re a wizard of some kind, Mister Holmes.”

“No, but I can move matter.” Holmes waved his hand and Doctor Mortimer’s sleeping form levitated in the air. “Wait here, Watson, while I deposit Doctor Mortimer in his bed.”

“I shall carry on to my own bed, if you don’t mind,” said Sir Henry. “Good night, Doctor Watson.”

“Good night, Sir Henry.”

When Holmes returned, he said, “I wanted you to look at the rug.”

“What about it?”

Holmes brought up one of the front paws and pointed to the second claw. “That.”

“Goodness! That claw looks like Sir Henry’s dagger.”

“Look at the other paw.”

I looked. It was missing a claw.

“Breaking the hobgoblin’s spell is as much about the weapon as the wielder. Even I could not have done what Sir Henry did tonight.”

“Holmes, Sir Henry’s dagger can’t be the claw from this animal. We were there when he bought that stick. He told us that he didn’t even know about the dagger until after he’d purchased it, the first night in London when he took it back to the hotel and examined it. Unless, he’s lying and took that claw and somehow welded it into the handle of the stick. Seems unlikely thing to do.”

“No, I believe Sir Henry is telling the truth. Nevertheless, the stick came into his hands, and it contained the weapon required to kill that hobgoblin and break its spell.”

“So much coincidence. Is it over, Holmes? Selden couldn’t have been responsible for Sir Charles’ death. He couldn’t be the hound, or the wolf, of the Baskervilles.”

“No. And it isn’t over. Not yet.”

“That curious purple smoke which the hobgoblin exhaled just before Sir Henry killed it.”

“Yes, that is very important. That may be the key to the whole thing.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“I have some ideas, but I need to do some research.”

“Wonderful,” I said dryly.

I retired. Holmes pretended to.

No sooner had I slipped beneath the bedclothes than my keen ears caught a faint scratching on the door.

I ushered a sleek black cat with silver eyes into the bedroom. It leapt upon the bed with consummate grace and an arrogant flick of its tail.

_This business of Sir Henry and the cards, Watson._

“Yes?”

I returned to bed. The cat settled on my belly.

_Has he said what the third card is?_

“No.”

_Ask in the morning. I will leave a reference book for interpretation._

“You think it’s relevant?”

_Perhaps. Could the owl…_

I waited.

_…be a were-pard?_

I sat up, displacing the cat, much to its indignation.

“Were-pard? Companion animal, like Pup and my poor Woof?”

_Yes._

“I’ve never known a were-pard to shift. I mean, it certainly wasn’t an owl that told Sir Henry’s fortune on the boat.”

_True._

“And, what’s more, were-pards are canines. Dogs. On rare instance, a fox. I’ve heard of a dingo or a jackal, but that’s just stories. I’ve never heard of a bird parding a wolf.”

_Ravens and wolves work nicely together sometimes. Why not owls and wolves?_

I yawned. “More and more things than are dreamt of in my philosophy. You aren’t going to sleep, are you?”

_No, to the library here. Then to visit my brother._

“Mycroft?”

_If you want to know about unspeakable eldritch horrors, ask a public auditor._

I chuckled, then yawned again.

_Rest, Watson. Tomorrow will test us all._

I fell asleep to the soothing sound of feline purring.


	6. The 10 of Swords (Reversed)

“Holmes sends his apologies,” I said at breakfast. “He is unable to join us.”

“Sleeping?” asked Sir Henry.

“Yes,” I answered truthfully. “He will join us at dusk.”

Sir Henry’s eyebrows rose. He nodded then changed the subject. “I checked on Mister Frankland. He is also still sleeping.”

“And he will be,” I said, “until Holmes decides otherwise. He won’t be harmed by it, judging by its effects on, oh, say, half of Scotland Yard.”

Sir Henry’s eyes widened, and so did Doctor Mortimer’s. The latter spoke after washing a slice of toast down with a second cup of coffee.

“If you’d like, Sir Henry, I can pass on the message to his household that he’s been taken ill, and I am treating him here.”

“Yes, that would make things easier. Thank you. Now, I suppose we should make a plan for tonight.”

“With young Peter here, I would not recommend greeting the full moon inside the Hall or anywhere near it,” I said.

“No, indeed,” said Doctor Mortimer. “One of the more remote Neolithic sites would be a good choice.”

We spent a few minutes deciding on the exact rendezvous point, and Doctor Mortimer was pressed into drawing us a map. Then it was agreed that Sir Henry and I would meet Doctor Mortimer some minutes before dusk.

Doctor Mortimer took his leave, and Sir Henry and I went to the library.

“What was the third card that you were served on the boat, Henry?” I asked.

“The ten of swords, reversed.”

I looked it up in the book that Holmes had left beside the bed.

Sir Henry moved behind me and read over my shoulder. “Yes, that’s it. Not a pretty picture, is it?”

The card showed a figure with ten swords in its back. I turned the book upside-down. It didn’t look much better.

“But if it is reversed, this says it means ‘recovery, regeneration, and resisting an inevitable end,’” I pointed out.

“Would that ‘inevitable end’ be my own death at the hands of some cursed beast? Because I am jolly well up for resisting that!” said Sir Henry with a strained laugh.

“Have you read about were-pards in the books I gave you?”

“Yes. It’s like a pet.”

“Yes, a companion animal to a _were_. Holmes suggested the barn owl might be yours.”

“But aren't were-pards always dogs?”

“I thought so, too.” I shrugged. “I’ve never known any other possibility, but…”

“How will I know?”

“It will seek you out. You must name it. I had one in the beginning, just after I returned to London. I named him Woof. A sweet thing, but he died soon after I moved in the rooms at Baker Street,” a flicker of grief touched my heart, then my upper lip stiffened, “and, well, Sherlock Holmes is enough companion animal for any _were_.”

Sir Henry and I went for long walks before and after lunch during which he peppered me with more questions. I answered everything to best of my knowledge and experience.

“Forgive me, Doctor, but I am anxious.”

“It is understandable. I am, too.”

“But you know what to expect.”

“I have never confronted a legendary hell-hound. Or hell-wolf. Or whatever it is that awaits us.”

“You think this hound will make an appearance?”

“Holmes thinks so. That’s all the certainty I require. I will do what Holmes bids tonight without question or hesitation. I recommend you do the same.”

Sir Henry nodded.

* * *

The minutes passed slowly, but finally the hour arrived, and light began to leak from the sky.

Sir Henry and I passed no one on our way and saw only Doctor Mortimer when we arrived.

I brought an empty hamper for clothes. As did Doctor Mortimer.

We said little, but when darkness threatened, my muscles twitched.

“It’s time,” I said.

Doctor Mortimer and I slipped into the stone hut to disrobe, but Sir Henry remained outside. He said, “I am going to wait until….”

“At least remove your fine brown boots,” I advised. “It’d hate to see those rent to patches.”

A few moments later, the boots were hurled into the hut. I stowed them in the hamper.

I closed my eyes as the very last of the daylight faded, and when I opened them, perhaps a minute later, it was dark, and I was staring at the lanky, brown wolf I’d foreseen when Doctor Mortimer had first crossed the threshold of 221B Baker Street.

He sniffed. I sniffed. But our greeting was cut short.

“AH-AH-ARGH-ARGH-GRRR!”

Shredded wool and cotton lay scattered about the ground.

Doctor Mortimer whimpered, and I shrank back, shaking before the largest, most fearsome animal I’d ever seen in all my life.

Not a wolf.

_A bear!_

Sir Henry rose up to his full height. He loomed over us, his thick brown fur plated with silver moonlight. He rotated his mammoth head and growled, showing magnificent sharp teeth and black gums. Then he raised his front paws and clawed at the air.

“Ha, ha! I knew it!” cried a voice. Mister Stapleton arrived rubbing his hands together and grinning with glee. “I must say, it is a marvelous inheritance: a human fortune in riches and a fine estate and,” he cackled, “a lunar form unsurpassed in power and majesty! I can’t wait! No more sniveling schoolmasters and depraved fiends! And no more wolves!” He cast a withering glance at Doctor Mortimer.

Sir Henry roared at Stapleton, and Doctor Mortimer and I fell into attack stance, but then there came another voice, cold, steely, and wholly undead.

“No.”

Stapleton’s body jerked, and a violet light escaped from it. The light curved in an arc towards Sir Henry. Doctor Mortimer and I jumped up and snapped at it to no purpose.

A grey shadow fell over all of us, and a grey shield came up before Sir Henry. The violet light ricocheted off the shield and flew at once back into the body of Stapleton, which reanimated at once.

“Sherlock Holmes!”

“I hardly know how to address you,” said Holmes placidly. He was hovering with the shield, which was his enormous grey bat-like wings outstretched, before Sir Henry, who was standing on his hind legs, snorting and snapping. “You’ve had so many names. Perhaps you prefer the German title, _Doppelgänger_.”

“The only title I claim is Baskerville!” screeched Stapleton.

I readied myself to lunge at the bastard’s throat, but he brought out a heavy revolver.

“Watson, no!”

I rolled as I fell, the silver bullet missing me by a hair’s width.

The violet light leapt once more from the human body of Stapleton towards Sir Henry, and It ricocheted once more, but instead of returning to its previous host, it was absorbed by the trembling Doctor Mortimer, who grew and grew and whose eyes turned from grey to red and whose fur took on a strange luminescence.

Here was the solution to the mystery. Here was the hound of the Baskervilles.

I could not blame Sir Charles for being frightened to death, despite knowing that somewhere inside the creature was a mild-mannered country doctor, I, too, was gripped by an icy paroxysm at the very sight of the beast.

But I recovered. And lunged.

“Watson!”

Teeth ripped into flesh, mine and the possessed Mortimer’s, and I breathed in the incongruously sweet breath as we rolled together. I was pinned. I struggled. Red eyes pierced me, and I sensed, as I had at Maiwand, that this was the final chapter of my story.

And just as at Maiwand, I was wrong.

I saw another flash of silver. The barrel of the revolver, a weapon as specialised in its killing as Sir Henry’s claw.

“Let him go or I will kill you before you have a chance to claim your prize.” Holmes’s words were followed by a deafening roar.

My foe froze, then turned its head in the direction of the mighty bear.

I sprang up, ready to bite, just as the violet light curled in the air. I closed my jaws upon nothing and fell back to earth.

Slashed and bleeding, Doctor Mortimer crumpled to the ground, too, but Stapleton sprang up.

“No!”

I did not understand Stapleton’s cry until I let my head loll and saw the bear running away.

“Watson, Watson.” Everywhere Holmes touched me, the pain subsided. I barked, and he went to Doctor Mortimer’s side.

“Mortimer will live. But there isn’t time for a full healing. Come. Sir Henry is leading him to the Mire. Follow in my tracks.”

I ran. Holmes flew. We reached the edge of the Mire and then proceeded more carefully.

We soon spotted them.

Sir Henry was leaping fearlessly from island to island as if he knew the way through the Mire by heart. Stapleton copied his movements, closing the distance between them.

Then Sir Henry jumped a long expanse of bog, a stretch no human could possibly cross. He turned to face Stapleton as if daring him to try.

Stapleton laughed.

Holmes cried out, and I felt the icy wave of his shadow overhead. The violet light shot out of Stapleton, but before Holmes could reach the fray, something bubbled up from the Mire and intervened, blocking the arc of doppelgänger just as Holmes’s wings had and sending the violet light back into Stapleton’s body.

The tuft of ground beneath Stapleton’s feet sank.

“No!”

The bubbling mass, which took the dripping shape of a bear as it rose, reached out its spectral claw and swatted Stapleton as the Mire swiftly closed in around him. Then the bear dissolved back into the Mire itself, and the earth settled, and all was still once more.

Holmes went to Sir Henry’s side. Side-by-side, they watched the spot where Stapleton had disappeared.

I watched, too.

I was still watching when I heard a whimper some distance behind me. I turned.

Doctor Mortimer.

I turned back to glance at Holmes and barked.

“Go on, Watson, and tend to him,” called Holmes. “It is safe. Killing the host before the doppelgänger has a chance to take refuge into a new host is the only manner of extinguishing the singularly wily creature, but I will keep vigil with Sir Henry until his mind is at ease. His ancestor, Sir Auberon, unless I’m very much mistaken, will also be on guard to ensure that the villain does not surface.”

Sir Henry growled, but it was softer growl and did not inspired the abject fear of earlier.

By continuous sniffing and following Holmes’s scent, I was able to slowly make my way back to the edge of the Mire. I licked Doctor Mortimer’s wounds, and then, through a series of noises and nudges, bid him to lead us to the nearest body of flowing water, a stream, as it turned out, where he leaned on me as we bathed his whole body in the cold waters.

After much licking and nuzzling, Doctor Mortimer regained his strength.

We walked. We trotted. We ran. We chased each other and played as all _were_ are wont to do beneath a full moon.

Eventually, Doctor Mortimer and I returned to the Neolithic settlement. I looked in the direction of the Mire.

When I saw them, I threw my head back and howled. Doctor Mortimer joined in.

I doubt any artist could have done justice to the beauty of the scene: in the background, the full moon and the moonlit moor, and in the foreground, Sir Henry, in all his ursine majesty, flanked by two winged attendants, Holmes and the barn owl.

Doctor Mortimer and I ran to greet Sir Henry with wagging tails and excited yips and sniffing galore. He met us as friend, returning our salutations with alacrity.

“Sir Henry and I have had much time to chat,” said Holmes when the frenzy had subsided. “I have told him all I know about the cursed doppelgänger, a creature until this case I thought as much the stuff of nightmare fairytale as the hound of the Baskervilles. This doppelgänger leapt from body to body, from Doctor Mortimer to Mister Stapleton to the fugitive Selden, with the ultimate aim of living in Sir Henry and enjoying the advantages of his dual state, which the fiend recognised at once.”

Sir Henry growled indignantly, and the barn owl, perched on Sir Henry’s shoulder, flapped its dappled wings.

“I have also told Sir Henry about Sir Auberon, whose ghost, I learnt last night, has dwelt in the Mire since he met his death there. The hobgoblin no doubt played a role in that death. There are ways in which Sir Henry might cultivate Sir Ambrose’s favour for the benefit of himself as well as all who live nearby. It can be done, and Sir Henry has the heart to do it. But that is tomorrow. Tonight, the threat, the very real threat of the insidious doppelgänger, is vanquished, lamentably, at the cost of Mister Stapleton’s life. Thank you, Doctor Mortimer,” Holmes folded his wings and gave a little bow, “for bringing to the attentions of Doctor Watson and myself a most fascinating case.”

Doctor Mortimer yelped and wagged his tail.

Holmes glanced at the horizon. “Now, before the night fades, I must take my leave, but might I presume to invite myself to dinner at Baskerville Hall tonight?”

At that, much to my delight, Sir Henry leaned over and licked the side of Holmes’s face with his mammoth tongue.

Sir Henry Baskerville looked at his plate, which was piled high with eggs and rashers and toast, and said, “I suppose I’m as hungry as a…” He shot Doctor Mortimer and I a comical look, and we laughed heartily.

“I never entertained the possibility that you weren’t a wolf, Sir Henry,” I said. “There is mention in the literature of other were forms, but it is often just a footnote or two.”

“Then I shall have to add ‘author’ to my many titles and remedy the gap,” said Sir Henry. “Or maybe I could hire you in your Boswell capacity to write it for me?”

“I’d be delighted.”

Doctor Mortimer coughed quietly, his expression sober. “I do grieve the death of Mister Stapleton, but who’s to say what was the man and what was the thing living inside him?” He shook his head. “And, as involuntary as it was, I am very sorry for the role that I played in your uncle’s death, Sir Henry, and for my behaviour last night.”

“We are friends, Mortimer, and we shall be better friends.” Sir Henry reached out and covered Doctor Mortimer’s hand with his and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you for coming to my aid by bringing Mister Holmes and Doctor Watson to this matter. I shudder to think how the events of last night might have unfolded without them.” He took up his fork and plunged it into the foodstuffs. “So what normally happens after we break our full moon fast?”

I looked at Doctor Mortimer. Doctor Mortimer looked at me. We spoke as one.

“Sleep!”

That evening, we were once again before the fire.

“You do not need a portrait of Sir Auberon, Sir Henry.” Holmes nodded to the rug. “There he is.”

“You think that is Sir Auberon?!”

“I do. I think the body was found by his son, but his spirit entered the Mire. Perhaps as a trade for the life of Peter? I don’t know. The dagger in the hilt of your stick is a claw from this creature. It’s all part of your inheritance.”

Sir Henry exhaled. Then he pointedly looked at Holmes. “And you, sir?”

Holmes’s grey eyes flashed.

“I call myself ‘nightwalker,’ though most call me ‘vampire.’ So indelicate term, that. Should you visit London or any other great metropolis, you will find that nightwalkers and _were_ do not mix. But, to be fair, my kind often don’t mix with any, except when hungry, and then it isn’t so much mixing as tasting. There are a few points of common ground, however, between the nightwalker and _were_ cultures. I, too, was turned against my will.”

“Well, I think any animosity is nonsense,” said Sir Henry. “You saved my life, all our lives. Not regardless of what you are, but because of it!”

“I’m no saint, Sir Henry. I take lives as well as spare them. You should know, however, that Watson risks ostracism, abuse, and even violence from both sides for his close association with me.”

Sir Henry turned to me.

“It is worth the price,” I said. “Holmes is extraordinary in any form.”

Sir Henry nodded. “I agree. And whenever I have an opportunity, I shall make an effort to dispel such intolerance.” Then he sighed and let his eyes travel around the room, from the rug to the portraits, from the crackling fire to his guests. Then his eyes widened, and he gasped.

Holmes laughed. “Mister Frankland?”

“Is still sleeping!” cried Sir Henry. “I forgot about him!”

“Yes,” said Holmes. “It’s time that our Sleeping Beauty was awakened. What should I do about him? What say you, Watson? Wipe the memory clean?”

I shook my head. “I say tell him the truth. What is your vote, Henry?”

He shrugged. “Why not? He may not believe it, but if he does, I could use another friend and confidant.”

“As you wish,” said Holmes. He snapped his fingers.

Sir Henry Baskerville stood at the open window.

“By all accounts, I’m supposed to give you a name,” he said, addressing the barn owl that was perched on the branch. “I don’t see that I could call you anything but Fortune.”

The barn owl twisted its head and blinked. Then it raised its craggy foot and extended it slightly.

Sir Henry extended his own hand, palm up, and caught what the owl dropped.

A dead mouse.

He smiled. “Thank you, my dear.” Then he added, merrily, “Delicious!”

The owl hooted and flapped its wings.

Sir Henry watched it take to air, at last, knowing in his heart, with all certainty, just who it was that Fortune favoured.

Him, the Were of the Baskervilles

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
